A Tale of Two Cities

A busy congested road, and yet vehicles rush by

Lights blinding horns blaring, accidents preventing all try

Of frustrated and tired people, long queues there be

In tempos and trucks and buses and cars, as far the eye can see

In the midst of them all, drives in a car unseen

Windows rolled down, music blaring at volumes obscene

Singing to the beats of the tabla and the dhol

In a punjabi bad-boy ishtyle, listening to Gal mithi mithi bol

An exchange of money, some way ahead takes place

But the cold wind draws in, a chill on the face

So the windows roll up, and volume adjusted so softly down

As a sudden calmness falls, silent lies the town

The track shuffles through, and so plays Walk On

As I move from one city to the next, no longer blares the horn

A track apt, reminding me of all that I leave behind

Soothed are the senses, tranquil now lies the mind

A million different avatars flow, which one is truly mine

Home is where the heart is, that is all there is to pine

And so a daily swing of moods, the toll bridge signifies

Leaving Gurgaon, Welcome Delhi - a tale of two cities to surmise ...

The Butterfly Effect - Part 2

Butterflies in the stomach, butterflies in my mind

they bring back memories I cant seem to find

Of days gone by, and evenings so long

they float on the tunes of an old melancholy song

Patient in a cocoon, they germinate with none to hound

each event awaits, till on its own it wishes to be found

To transpire into an everlasting memory, bidding their time

till hell freezes over and clocks no more chime

Colored spots on wings, each holds a clue

some intense others fringed, a thought for every hue

One tiny flap, for each eon of memory wasted by

a million flaps for me, see how they fly

In a forest of dreams, they roam without concern

while in reality, their hearts within me burn

A ruse for the fickle minded, the butterflies are a ploy

with each memory now, they bring more sorrow than joy

I want them to stop, their beauty entrenched

what fear they arise, i fear with jaws clenched

And so their cocoon I shatter, well before they are born

lest i hurt them all, as victims of my scorn

Butterflies in the stomach, butterflies in my mind

they no more bring memories I do not wish to find

Of days gone by, and evenings so long

they wither away like the tunes of an old melancholy song

And Then There Were None ...

My tribute to the best nineteen folks i have worked with till date and the four best spent days of my life here at IIM-A

A cold winter month, a dog-day afternoon

Empty sights galore, silent lies the tune

No mortal awake, the golden sun passes me by

Am I anxious or elated, rather relieved with a sigh !

Standing here today, the 5th of November not forgot

I travel back in time, four days to the dot

And I see – teeming hundreds, thronging the hallowed hall

Three hundred of the bravest, responding to a recruiter’s call

Like Spartans they come, flocking to the Central field

All charged, some steady – a single resume, their naked shield

Closed doors await, a burden of forty minutes to bear

They are for that instant the foci, all that is they care

And the process repeats, but recruiters they all stay the same

The vanquished Spartan his death awaits – he feels it a mockery of the game

When hark, what is this he sees – an offer comes waltzing by

Unexpected, unseen – a windfall from the sky

The jubilation of glory for this one, it pains me to see

I think of the two hundred ninety nine, yet chained – waiting to be free

But then the day wears on, closer the evening draws

I see them all firm and resolute, none yet clutching at the straws

And it strengthens the resolve, like an oak amidst the greens

Of the twenty who lay hidden, working behind the scenes

For tomorrow will be another day, we know it would be great

Unto us the task is set, we carry this burden of fate

So when I wake up, the glaring sun in my eye

One more offer I say to me, I will not give in without a try

Finally this circle of life and death, it draws towards an end

The fourth day sets down, the last mile before the bend

And so it ends for us, victory approacheth nigh

The last Spartan gladly returns, we celebrate Christmas in July

We now know with all delight, that when the sun shall rise

The competition waits on the starting line, while we bag the prize

The heroics of a batch written in gold, adorn the institute shelves

Of 20 silent shrouds – their work done – they say, we did it ourselves

But for us the moments shared, are not too far and few

No person left unplaced, zero the length of the queue

It feels proud, when asked today – how good, the work was done

We started with three hundred, then in the end There Were None …

The 'SIN'ister Sisters

As i break the 'blog silence' in almost 10 months, I realize how wasted has this time been in under utilizing the space here. A feeling that sinks in when one realizes he/she has run dry of expressing their thoughts through a creative outlet !

Perhaps one of the few real reasons for picking up this course on Developing your Creative Self here at IIM-A is, as I have come to realize, that hidden desire to reignite a passion for writing which slumbers on.

And so follows a sojourn about the seven follies, sisters in crime, that I have indulged in my desire to be where I stand today, leaving behind some of the better times. I think Acedia will be my biggest concern.

Greed is good and Greed is right,

It cuts through, reinforces, and proves men’s might

Greed for life and Greed for love,

Greed in all its forms spread over a heathen cove

Is it a sign of status or simply a vice of mood,

This constant eating of delicacies and Gluttony of food

Withheld from the needy, rotund bellies bulge

The sin of excess, a temptation to over-indulge

A most potent cause of unhappiness, a harbinger it seems

The want of deep and dark desires in each of our dreams

My sorrow for another man’s good, insatiable none the same

A desire to deprive him of it, Envy – it be thy name

From invidiousness flows anger, an uncontrolled feeling of revenge

Not always external, our own inner demons it may avenge

Transgressions born of vengeance, the sin of Wrath breeds rage

Soothe it, appease it, and overcome it through the patience of a sage

The devil’s workshop it be, they say is an empty mind

To neglect and refuse joy, the sin of Sloth is unique in its kind

A willful refusal to work, an invitation to laze around

Aren’t we mortals through insufficiency of love truly bound

But for love to linger as an excess unrestrained

Adultery to incest, deviant thoughts no longer chained

Luxuria of sexual depravity they called it in times long ago

The sin of lechery, through Lust is how we know

Ultimately, a destroyer of men, a liberator of them all

It is Pride that finally goes before a fall

The sin of hubris, of the seven most vile

Transforming Lucifer to Satan, it makes mere mortals senile

Oh! How I Envy thee Faust ...

When I say to the Moment flying: 'Linger a while - thou art so fair!'
Then bind me in your bonds undying, and my final ruin I will bear.

--- The Tragical History of Dr. Faust (Christopher Marlowe)

Bizarre as it may seem and heretic though it may sound, come to think of it, I truly wish to emulate Doctor Faust. For the uninitiated, Dr. Faust or Faustus is the person in literary folklore who sold his soul to the devil in exchange for eternal life.

But legends are based on stories, and some of which are true. The origin of Faust's name and persona remains unclear, though it is widely assumed to be based on the figure of German Dr. Johann Georg Faust (approximately 1480–1540), a dubious magician and alchemist probably from Württemberg, who obtained a degree in divinity from Heidelberg University in 1509. According to one account, Faust's infamy became legendary while he was in prison, where in exchange for wine he "offered to show a chaplain how to remove hair from his face without a razor; the chaplain provided the wine and Faustus provided the chaplain with a salve of arsenic, which removed not only the hair but the flesh".

Without deviating much, let me simply say - how many of us are lucky enough to fall in love, be the one who breaks our beloved's heart, sells his soul to the devil, manages to live a life of longevity albeit one of sadness and remorse, and yet manages to find that one single moment of happiness in the end knowing no happiness truly exists. And despite these horrors and the tragedies, God intervenes and prevents the devil from taking Faust's soul as agreed, because HE recognizes Faust's unending striving.

How easy is it for us to condemn someone today for their sins, knowing not the true nature of the actions involved. All we think about is the fact that Faust sold his soul, without an endeavor to understand why he did the same.

It was not for money, it was not for power, it was not for fame. No it was not even for love. It was simply to attain more knowledge. To attain the zenith of human happiness. Faust knew this would never happen, and hence he was confident of never having to give up his soul. As Goethe showcases in his poetry, even God feels the need to let the man's soul be, for though he has committed the sin of hubris, he has done it for a higher good. For that one moment of happiness, he has decided to forgo his very essence.

Now you would think, why am i blabbering all this. The facts simply are, i have been thinking about a few things this past week, and trying to find that one moment of happiness for myself. Seems to me its a little obscured at the moment. I am becoming unsure and hazy on what construes happiness. Is it the pleasure of achieving some thing great or is it the cherished memories of being with people you like, your friends, your family. Clueless i still am.

As the devil incites Faust - "if you wish to stay in that moment forever, you shall die that very moment". Do i thus wish to achieve that tiny bit of joy to be everlasting. Or am i ready to give it up and move on - seeking more moments of mirth that shall please me just the instant, but never to keep in my thoughts for ever. All good things come to an end. But as the answer came back, it is well so for better things to start anew.

The piper at the gates of dawn - waiting to be led - leading the way.
Oh Faust, shower me with the very knowledge you seek. So that i may be wary when the time comes for me to choose and decide the fate for my own.

Forget Me Not ...

As they stared blankly. in dumb misery deepening as they slowly realized all they had seen and all they had lost, a capricious little breeze, dancing up from the surface of the water, tossed the aspens, shook the dewy roses and blew lightly and caressingly in their faces; and with its soft touch came instant oblivion. For this is the last best gift that the kindly demi- god is careful to bestow on those to whom he has revealed himself in their helping: the gift of forgetfulness. Lest the awful remembrance should remain and grow, and overshadow mirth and pleasure, and the great haunting memory should spoil all the after-lives of little animals helped out of difficulties, in order that they should be happy and lighthearted as before.

--- The Wind in the Willows

Oh what a sweet gift it is. The gift of forgetfulness. To purge thoughts of no use. To wipe away memories no longer dear. To wash away the remembrances no longer worth attaching to.

As Engelbert Humperdinck would put it - "How could you leave without regret? Am I that easy to forget?"

Or is it that we begin to forget some memories because new ones have taken their place. We had nothing against the old ones though. Its just that they faded away into obscurity.

But why would this happen. What would lead someone to churn out the remembrances that one has. Memories are linked to people. Memories are linked to places. Memories are linked to events. You can forget the people, you can forget the places, you can forget the events. But you cannot drive out the abstract emotions that have had a lasting impact on you via them.

People come and people go. They maybe near you, they may be distances apart. They are with you today, and yet years away. The memories you cherish the most are the ones that bring a smile to your face even after ages of their having happened. The sudden warmth you feel, the glow that lightens up your face.

Who would be cruel enough to ignore these. Shun them like pestilences. One man's junk is another man's treasure they say. Apt words. Your golden days can at best be the indifference in the lives of others. What then should one do. Pluck such thoughts off? Or bury them in so deep that they get lost amongst the million other indifferences.

I for one, cannot do either. I wish i could. Revisit the Tabula Rasa as i so want to. But no, I have learnt over time that starting clean is probably not always the correct way out. It maybe the easy path, but then i choose not to take it. As Frost puts its, I took the road less traveled. Beautiful lines:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Face my fears and face my defeats. Face my sufferings and face my pain. This I must do.
To try and remember, to keep thinking, to keep longing, to keep hoping, to keep having the faith, to not give up even if the cause is lost.

The gift of forgetfulness is the easy way out.
But as Frost yet again so serenely puts it as "my best bid for remembrance", i quote one of my favorite passages again.

Whose woods these are I think I know,

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lonely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Sgt. Pepper Lonely Hearts Club ...

Yeah yeah - that's the name of the number one rock album of all time as mentioned by the Rolling Stones magazine. The first time the Beatles came out with their creative best as a unit. The first time they tried doing something under a nom-de-plume - to NOT be Beatles the performers - but Beatles the next door artists.

Given the debacle i put myself into after the previous write-up, where everybody (except the one intended for) started questioning the mystery shrouding the post, like the Beatles posing as the Sgt. Peppers Club, i decided to clear up some air.

No, this has nothing to do with Hyderabad or Nashik or any other city in the country. And no, this was not the usual pre V-day blues either. I don't suppose you need to have a V-day in order to tell somebody you love them or like them or miss them and on and on. Don't we keep doing that pretty much every day of the year anyways.

(PS - don't brand me a "Tu hi tu Bajrangi Re" for having something against Valentine - beautiful post - must read - especially the "Kya ek ladka aur ladki ..." dialogue from Maine pyaar kiya - suddenly reminds of a "couple" of people i know - in a good way obviously - who am i to presume things and get into the trouble of writing apologies)

To cater to a second niche group that was much interested in the time of the post; well crowds generally pysche me more than being alone. Its all a state of mind rather than the physical being. Ok ok, no more Freudian fart.

Take for example tonight. It truly was a blast. Old happy memories revisited. Rib tickling laughter entwined with Toxic Ninja overdose. On one side you had the eternal chatterboxes, and on the other the GD experts, who like to come in at strategic points, hit a bouncer for a six, and then move back into their shell.

I was in the mood for writing the contents of the previous post for a long time now, but just never found the opportune moment. A few lines "close to my heart".

Come to think of it - do i need to justify what i write or on whom i write. NO i don't.
Read at your leisure, if you will. Appreciate at your leisure, if you will. Scathe at your leisure, if you will.

The keyboard is simply a medium for aerated ideas. Thoughts fizz through ...

What i have realized though over time is - you can be as lonely as you want to be in a crowd, or enjoy the company of good memories locked up by yourself. Its all how you perceive the moment. You could laugh away in front of everybody but still be aloof. Or you could have that pleasant and relaxingly quiet glow that says it all.

I recall a very old story i read by Earl Reed Silvers; the thoughts which i try and capture here in my own poetic essence:

Do you remember, dear, the days so long ago;
the school lab, where over messy experiments, each other we grew to know.
Do you remember, dear, you had just moved to town;
I was a poor dressmaker's son, but you wore a tiara and a gown.

Do you remember, dear, my waking thoughts were mostly of you;
you took me into your crowd, though friends i had so few.
Do you remember, dear, the night i took you to the dance;
and while we danced the last waltz, i confessed my love at this only chance.

Do you remember, dear, the specks of gold in your eyes;
and all the efforts to keep it a secret, with those small true lies.
Do you remember, dear, when society became so disapproving of us;
you took the path to college on the very next bus.

Do you remember, dear, what i whispered to you that day;
that in years to come you must follow what your heart would say.
Do you remember, dear, i asked you to win over your fears;
I kissed you, and you smiled at me through your tears.

Do you remember, dear, those letters of mine you never got;
the ones your mother, seeing you reading, had from then on caught.
Do you remember, dear, your replies to mine were always so short and few;
One week followed another, and i had only my memories of you.

Do you remember, dear, that i worked hard to earn a living of mine;
and through hardships and savings, it all worked out fine.
Do you remember, dear, the years that have gone by, 31 in all;
and we celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary this fall.

Do you remember, dear, that soon after you had college left;
chance it was, that in the corner of an unknown street we again met.
Do you remember, dear, the golden specks were in your eyes again;
reminiscent of that old night you left, us standing a final time in the rain.

Do you remember, dear, standing there in the middle of the street;
those strange words i again began to repeat;
Do you remember, dear, if in years to come i ever walk in through that door ...
forgetting the tears in both our eyes, you kissed me like never before !!!

While my guitar gently weeps ...

For the people who were wondering where I was this whole time - in geeky Arnie style i say - Inverse of Asta Lavista Baby - I am back ...

Judging by the pathetic level of PJs i have gone down to, I personaly realize the amount of pressure i have been under lately, and see my pent up thoughts going down a drain.

Back from a week spent in Silent Wilderness.
Thrown right back into the cacophonous populace.

I put up my blog title as my messenger status (without having written about it yet). People asked me the reason behind it - well the obvious reason was the Guitar that i saw hung on my wall with dirt accumulated over the jacket, with no one to care about it - forgotten and lost. I have kind of been feeling the for a few days now. Instances where the wrong items grabbed the wrong attention and the real good stuff - no - the great stuff - got lost in the middle of somewhere !!

Wrong priorities, unhappy endings, feeling of betrayal, lack of trust, loss of passion, overcome by apathy, grumpiness galore, rise of anarchy - the past revisited, the present distorted, the future foreseen.

Been a bit busy with GMAT and stuff - and seriously - the only 4 lettered acronym i can think of for it is PITA. With only a week and half to mug up English, "Lays American Style", it was a hard task unwinding all the basic grammar rules and re-learning English as quite a different language. It was an interesting experience, as all such first-time experiences are. But i would have appreciated it more if it were art-for-arts-sake, and not simply a grading system which judges you based on how well you can correct "me and I". Truly speaking, seriously, would it really - and i mean really - matter to any top-notch university if the sentence articulation was slightly off mark, but conveyed quite fairly the meaning it was constructed to convey.

Given the fast pace of all activities, who is going to stop and think for the next moment if "they did it" or "they had done it". Point is - the job was/had been 'done' - without mattering when in the past it was done. We are no detectives investigating a crime where time line and speech would have (could have?) mattered. Will it ever create a dent in my presentation if did not start my sentences with However, while others may, firstly, summing up !!

Alright - i'll be the first to agree i am not the greatest exponents of the language - but without pride taking a fall, i am not the worst either - written or spoken, English is something i think i can convey my ideas reasonably well in. Fundamentalists might argue that Yoda spoke wrong English - but hey - the French use more of Passive voice and the Germans put their verbs before their subjects - both of which Yoda regularly indulges in. And yet, and yet - we all get what he gibberishly speaks (apart from the whole With-you-may-the-Force-be, My-young-padawan concept - we are not Jedis, right?)

Do the readers feel my anger and frustration is vent upon the GMAT because i scored miserably in test - not really - in fact i did better in the english section than i was doing in any previous practice tests. My score was decent (my personal target was 700+ which i passed comfortably) if not phenomenal, and i am happy with what i got compared to the input i put in. Obviously, since humans are never the content species, they'll always crib if they fall short of the best. What am i to say - I am human too.

And that is the reason i see my guitar gently weep - even though i notice it not, it sees me transforming into something i am not, something i aim to be which i dont want to, struggling against the odds to get even, doing what my heart does not believe in, holding onto things i should let go, and missing those little joys of life that truly matter.

I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it need sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps

I don't know why nobody told you
how to unfold you love
I don't know how someone controlled you
they bought and sold you

I look at the world and I notice it's turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps

I don't know how you were diverted
you were perverted too
I don't know how you were inverted
no one alerted you

I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at you all
Still my guitar gently weeps ...

(George Harrison)

The Portrait - Musings of AAA batteries personified ...

I am sick.
And I am tired.
Not of my own life though.

But of every Tom, Dick and Harry blabbering away like a "AAA" battery on a topic they have no inkling about (i hope this particularly quoted sarcasm doesn't go waste on the people intended, though i doubt since they have limited comprehension of what black humor might be), trying to make a tea-party out of it. Well it made me change one of my gibberish mood swings to this - "Money people earn for work they don't do ..." - and then probably go on to act as if the work got done because of them. Well, its not hard to put 2 and 2 together for people who inter-visit 'common' blogs often.

Well, i don't want to harp on these petty issues (oops - i really meant people)

All my frustration apart, i do not deny a couple of teeny-weeny truths probably there are in all these writings and stuff. But there has to be a way of putting it effectively across, without making it sound so gung-ho and repetitive and blatantly obscene. Take for instance the chai-waala dhaba postings by Dingy and AJ. I couldn't kind of really find one different from the other. No hard feelings AJ. But man, get your creativity going dude. I am sure you can phrase out the same thing in a much better manner using a decent (if not better) idea.

/* PS with Edits */
I am sorry AJ - it was NOT meant to be a personal attack on your creativity what-so-ever. I simply beg you to use your creative talents on something which is not so trivial. Reading the same issue day in and day out with half the junta not knowing the correct info and trying to provide their 2 cents on everything pissed me off. I apologize if what i meant actually came out incorrectly (which i accept it did when i re-read it) and i caught you in the line of my frustration firing. That is what blogging is meant for :)

I cant respond to comments right now due to some proxy issues on this stupid network.
As i told you, dil pe mat lena - lets put together our heads much more "creatively" and try and loosen Mr. AS of some of his hard(ly) earned money during lunch on wednesday ...
/* End of PS with Edits */

And apart from these 2 blog posts, there were a couple of others, but too insignificant for me to mention here ...

All in all, i decided to fall back to my only form of creativity - poetry writing. I had ended up reading one of Edgar Allan Poe's short stories called "The Oval Portrait". So i decided to use it as my theme to fire up a few lines by myself which could probably describe the situation in a much more positive/optimistic outlook rather than the mundane-sombre-deadbolt approach people try to take. I personally don't look down upon my chai stall. In-fact, i consider it to be a piece of art. As opposed to the contrary notion of a chottu chai waala, tea-preparation techniques can be vocational in themselves. I am sure many wouldn't agree with the lines crafted below, in that light - but to them i say - who cares - i blog because i like to - "i blog because i think" (OK, thats stolen from Descartes, but he is not going to turn in his grave for plagiarizing it)

So here goes my le' imbecile. Without any visible firm bashings like the others !!
For people who cannot link the artist, or the exhibition, or the lady-love to known events and surroundings - well shame on you !!
I truly think that with a little effort and vodka (reference: Unni) you will understand it. There are a couple of interpretations, i as a poet thought out.
Good luck ...

THE PORTRAIT

Oh ! What a painter he was, an artist so fine
He could sketch from gothic frames, to a mural with intricate design
Never did art exceed its greatness so, in that era
Those pictures were more real than Gods Zeus or Hera

Once to the Paris Art Exhibition he went
where he fell in love with an angel, from heaven sent
He married her and brought her home
with a single desire to paint her, standing next to the Elyssian Dome

She was a maiden unparalleled in beauty and form
to be challenged only by the genius' artistic storm
Never did she like his involvment to become so deep
that he completely forgot her, even in his sleep
But a gentle, loving, obedient wife she was,
so she allowed herself to be portrayed for his cause

To capture that face on paper, he would like a madman work
never would he budge from his seat, though the night shadows around him lurk
For weeks together with the eisel in front of her spread
she sat in the dark high turret, a single window overhead
But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which stretched from day to day
that he shut himself up, keeping even his loved ones at bay

He could not see the dark, despaired health and spirit of his bride
who even in this time of gloom, yet had never cried
From the ardour of his work he never rose
to see the shattered, dying countenance of the lovely lady he chose

When finally his masterpiece had been completed
and the bristles of the paint brushes with the oil color reserves had depleted
then did he rise to admire his art, his child
none could achieve such greatness, even with an imagination so wild

"This is life indeed" , looking at the portrait he said
and he turned around suddenly to regard his beloved - SHE WAS DEAD

Poetic Musings - Eloise to Abelard

07 July 2007

Continuing from where i left off the previous post, here's the 2nd part to my poetic musings. This time it's the romantic love ballad by Alexander Pope - "Eloise to Abelard". I came across this obscure and unheard of poetry while watching the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, a movie which kind of brought me down to my knees in terms of the theme and performance and music. But its not about ESotSM that i am here to write - its about the poem from which the title line has been borrowed, and a paragraph of which Mary Svevo recites to the doctor ...

" How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd "

Probably only after the powerful dialogue delivery by Kirsten Dunst and the background images of Jim Carey - Kate Winslet fading into Beck's Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometime do i realize that i must find the source to these amazingly beautiful and serene lines. And thus i read through another ballad about eternal love.



The story of Eloise and Abelard is similar to that of Romeo and Juliet to an extent. Need i say more. Boy loves girl, girl loves boy, families dont like either, lots of blood spilt.
Not really this way, but Abelard was one of the famous tutors of his age, and Eloise was his student. The love between them developed but Eloise's family were not ready to accept that, and had Abelard castrated. Both Eloise and Abelard entered into clerical service, where once again, Eloise's love for Abelard grew strong, and what followed was a series of letters exchanged between Eloise and Abelard.

The ballad speaks about this condoned love between the two fateful lovers. The archaic wordings lend it an odd mystery and charm that probably normal English would not have justified. The poetry is beautiful, and like all beautiful poetry, it is rhyming. Now that would sound very odd to many people. Why is this lunatic comparing good poetry with ryhmes !
Simply because i feel that to express your thoughts in rhyming poetry, where the correct words need to inter-weave, is an art in itself. Simple thoughts well laid out would constitute a prose, not poetry.

The difference between the two ballads i read - Rime earlier and Eloise now (apart from the rhyming scheme abcb v/s aabb respectively) - is that while Rime incites pity via horror and terror, Eloise incites the same via love and sorrow. One is the reminiscence of eternal darkness, the other of unconditional love. Coleridge stimulates the deepest fears plaguing the mind, Pope touches the inner sanctums of the heart. Coleridge is more easier to understand in first reading than Pope, though that does not take away the joy of reading 'Eloise to Abelard' to try and grasp the real meaning and the ballad's beauty. Some lines 'sound' so good, it sometimes becomes irrelevant to even understand what they mean.

As before, i quote here the lines i liked the most from this mega-scribe. Rest is for the reader to sift and explore and enjoy.

" In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name."

" Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain."

" Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief. "

" No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do."

" Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,
The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale: "

" Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain,"

I could have written so much more of these beautiful verses here. But that would defeat the purpose. Lines that i write here are significant to me, and me only. It is for the audience mesmerized to unravel the poetry in its entirety and decipher the meaning of lines that stand true for them. I for mine still have a long way to go doing that. I sign off with the last verse that rings so true, i can but visualize Eloise and Abelard, not as the characters they are, but as me penning these lines.

" Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most. "

Here, at last, i understand !
And So be it ...

Poetic Musings - The Rime ...

July 02, 2007

In a mood swing today, that generally happens when i am not working and hence my brain is at its creatively worst, i decided to surf through famous ballads from yonder years, and read through two amzingly interesting pieces of poetry.

The first was Samuel Taylor Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The last rememberence i have of this megascribe was some very long exceprt in my English class 10 syllabus that spaced out over 3-4 pages (pretty huge by standards then for a poem, when the mind of an average Joe schoolkid was barely mugging up 2-3 paragraphs).

Today i read the entire seven parts of the poem, and realized that back then we had gone through just two !!
I feel a little hard done now, seeing that the charm of the poem lies in reading it completely, and more importantly, understanding each and every line with its obscure connotation. The way Coleridge lays out bare the horror of crimes the human society indulges in and the casual attitude with which it behaves towards such an outrage, really chills my bones. Given that some of the passages were written by Coleridge under the influence of opium, it is not far from the feeling and mysticism that he must have felt while induced in a pyschedlic state, especially the passages that describe the fiendish passing away of the sailors and the whispers of the lost souls across the ocean.

It is difficult to elaborate the devilry in my modest words. The subtle interplay of archaic wordings and the amazing Mariner centric poem, that so cleverly invloves the other sailors, the listner, the wedding entourage, even the albatross, and yet so easily does not draw the focus away from the protagonist (or rather should i say the antagonist) throughout the entire poetry. The journey, the pain and the suffering, the joy of forgiving and being forgiven, the penance, and finally the salvation - it is indeed a ballad - complete.

I leave it up to the curious reader to explore this on his own. All i can do is mention a few lines from the poetry which impressed upon me the most and helped me trace the contour of the darkest thoughts in Coleridge's mind.


"Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink."

"And some in dreams assured were
Of the spirit that plagued us so:
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
From the land of mist and snow."

"An orphan's curse would drag to Hell
A spirit from on high;
But oh! more horrible than that
Is a curse in a dead man's eye!
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
And yet I could not die."

And finally the lines that i heard in this video below which made me revisit the poem ...



"Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woeful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale;
And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns;
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me:
To him my tale I teach."


I shall continue my poetic musings in my next post
Cheers !!

The Dark is Generous ...

Apr 14, 2007

It was the Friday the 13th yesterday - obviously it meant something bad had to happen - nothing much actually went wrong - until the moment i decided to go back home - it was then i realized i had some pending work - not much - just enough to keep me in office till 5am again.

Been a week since i wrote something. Original or not, this time i am directly quoting something i read and liked and got "inspired" by (not like Anu Malik though)

A few lines from the Star Wars book - part 3 (Anakin Skywalker's transformation to the dark side as Lord Darth Vader)

The lines portray not only the flow of the entire Star Wars saga, but if you end up thinking about it, the lines are actually quite true and significant. We are all lost and hidden from the truth. Because speak the truth and the truth shall set you free !!

Some people think these lines are too pessimistic, and thats where is trapped the dark side. It is the optimism towards the end of the passage that has to be considered and not the gloomy feeling otherwise. If you think negative, you fall onto the dark side - lol :-)

Read on ...

The dark is generous.

Its first gift is concealment:
our true faces lie in the dark beneath our skins, our true hearts remain shadowed deeper still.
But the greatest concealment lies not in protecting our secret truths, but in hiding from us the truths of others.
The dark protects us from what we dare not know.

Its second gift is comforting illusion:
the ease of gentle dreams in night's embrace, the beauty that imagination brings to what would repel in day's harsh light.
But the greatest of its comforts is the illusion that the dark is temporary:
that every night brings a new day.
Because it is day that is temporary.
Day is the illusion.

Its third gift is the light itself:
as days are defined by nights that divide them, as stars are defined by the infinite black through which they wheel,
the dark embraces the light, and brings it forth from the center of its own self.
With each victory of the light, it is the dark that wins.

The dark is generous, and it is patient.
It is the dark that seeds cruelty into justice, that drips contempt into compassion, that poisons love with grains of doubt.
The dark can be patient, because the slightest drop of rain will cause those seeds to sprout.
The rain will come, and the seeds will sprout, for the dark is the soil in which they grow,
and it is the clouds above them, and it waits behind the star that gives them light.
The dark's patience is infinite.
Eventually, even stars burn out.

The dark is generous, and it is patient, and it always wins.
It always wins because it is everywhere.
It is in the wood that burns in your hearth, and in the kettle on the fire;
it is under your chair and under your table and under the sheets on your bed.
Walk in the midday sun and the dark is with you, attached to the soles of your feet.
The brightest light casts the darkest shadow.

The dark is generous, and it is patient, and it always wins --
but in the heart of its strength lies weakness:
one lone candle is enough to hold it back.
Love is more than a candle.
Love can ignite the stars.